I know how to avoid confrontation.
Staying, on the other hand is unpredictable. And unpredictable equals unsafe. What if Malice turns on me, lashes out, and hits me? What then? Where do I run then? Could I run again? At this moment, I honestly don’t think I have it in me to fight. Shit, I only did it this time because of him. If he hadn’t intervened, given me an out, where would I be? At home, or in the hospital? Possibly the morgue?
Maybe I am safer with Malice? After all, he cared enough to take me to the ER. He cared enough to save Rocco. He cared enough to step in, and do something about a situation he could have otherwise turned his head to. He could have walked away, left us to it, but he cared.
The solitary silence in this house has to stop. I can’t take the quiet any longer. Without noise, my mind runs rampant. I could quite literally sit here and think myself into a stupor.
In search of something to fill the void, I get up, and march down the hallway. The place has to have a radio, surely? If not, I can always improvise with a TV. Damn, I didn’t notice if there was a bloody TV. Halfway to the living room, a photo hanging on the wall catches my eye. How did I not see this before? I hesitate, and turn to inspect it further.
Malice is in it, along with five other guys. They’re sitting around a table, each with a beer in hand. It’s the kind of picture you imagine to be a snapshot of happy times, yet the mood of the photo is off. They’re all smiling, hands raised in a toast, yet every single one of them has dead eyes. The whole lot of them are putting it on. Not a single one of them looks genuine.
I step back, tipping my head to the side as I continue to look it over. Why would anyone hang a photo like that? Why would you want a permanent reminder that everyone’s faking the good times? Truth be told, it’s a little depressing.
With my quest to find noise all but forgotten, I carry on toward the living room at a more sedate pace. He said I could know what I wanted to about him. Problem is, I’m not sure where to start. The guy is full of mysteries at every twist and turn. He looks so . . . on-track with his life at first glance, but dig a little deeper and it’s clear he has his own issues.
Maybe that was why he blew up at me. Am I that bad at playing the victim? Do I truly ignore the fact everyone has his or her own battle to fight? I hadn’t thought so, but looking back I can feel that niggle in my gut that says he could be right. After all, that picture speaks volumes about what his life outside of this is like, and I hadn’t taken a moment to consider asking him about it.
How fucking selfish am I?
“Come on, Rocco. Let’s go explore the garden.”
The clicks of nails on a hardwood floor follow as I head outside. I need some fresh air. And I need to think about how to start a conversation with Malice. Because I know that if I ask him questions about his past, he’ll expect information from me in return. It’s basic human nature to want people to reciprocate.
Except I’m terrified that by doing so, all I’ll do is cement his thoughts on my victim-complex.
After all, what have I got to share other than stories of neglect, and misery?
• • • • •
ROCCO AND I lie in the late afternoon sun streaming in the French doors when I finally hear his pick-up return. Last time I checked it didn’t take three hours to buy groceries. My suspicions about what he’s been doing are answered the minute he crosses the threshold.
Malice holds at least five bags in each hand as he edges through the door. I rush over to hold it open for him, and lose the war against ogling his arms while he carries the bags to the kitchen.
“Is there any more?”
He shakes his head, and his biceps flex as he lifts the bags to the counter. “That’s the lot.”
He’s changed clothes since he left, and now elicits inappropriate thoughts from me, showcasing his form in a pair of shorts, and singlet. My money’s placed on the gym taking up the remainder of the past few hours. Either that, or he has some kinky fetish involving sweat.
He catches me ogling, and glances down at his attire. “I needed to blow off some steam.” He shrugs, as though he had to justify where he’s been.
“You don’t need to explain yourself to me.” I open a few cupboards to get a bearing on where everything is kept in this kitchen.
“I would have called to tell you where I was, but I don’t have your number.”
“I don’t have a phone. Never have.” I can feel his eyes on the back of my head as I stack cans of tuna on a shelf.
“How did you plan on calling me the other night, then?”
“I didn’t.”
He grumbles something I can’t make out. “His idea?”